Small Favors
by Musamea
Summary: Reflections on the little things that lovers do for each other. SJ, LM, movie spoilers.
1. Jean Speaks

**Title:** Small Favors  
**Author: **Musamea  
**Rating:** PG-13 for language and mild sexuality  
**Disclaimer: **X-Men belong to Stan Lee, Marvel, Fox, etc. I just play around in their universe.  
**Summary: **The little things that lovers do for each other. S/J, L/M, movie spoilers

* * *

Jean speaks: 

Scott shields his mind from me.

Or maybe I should say he shields it _for_ me. Now, I know that doesn't sound too terribly romantic when taken at face value, but in a relationship like ours, where one partner can _never_ in good faith say, "I don't know what you're thinking," it is inexpressibly precious.

Most women would give years off of their lives to know what their lovers are thinking or feeling at any given moment. Well, been there, done that. And let me tell you, hearing your boyfriend's unguarded mind is exactly the thing that _will_ put you into an early grave. Take Scott, for example. He loves me. I'm sure of it; he's sure of it. But does that mean he stays absolutely cold when one of his female students walks into class wearing a tight, low-cut shirt? Nope. Especially not when most of those girls are way more voluptuous than I ever was at their age… or ever will be, to tell the truth. Scott's a guy and – like any guy – spends a fair amount of time thinking with his lower brain.

And I'm aware of the argument that my telepathy would prove even _more_ useful in such a situation. I could anticipate his arguments and win whenever we have a fight. I could act out his wildest fantasies. I could know for certain if he means it when he says, "I love you."

But I don't want certainty, not if it comes at the price of Scott's privacy. Not even if it came at no price at all. That, I think, is my gift to him. And no, it's not that I'm so all-fired confident in myself and my charms. I'm not. Sometimes I still get those scared little shivers when he whispers endearments in my ear. Sometimes I wonder if his kiss tastes more of habit than of passion. I'm still more than slightly amazed when he remembers our anniversary – even though we've been together for so long now, even though he has such an analytical, mathematical mind. A head built for numbers.

But, so far as I can tell, those are _normal_ worries and wonders. They're what keep the mystery and excitement alive after all these years of waking up next to each other with bad breath and playing dorm-parents to the kids at the mansion. And that's what I want: an unpredictable Scott, who can make me nervous and shy, not a robot whose every move is familiar and safe. Otherwise, what would be the point of us being together? If I didn't have to _try_ to make this relationship work, I wouldn't value it half as much as I do.

So I keep walls up around my TP. They're a common courtesy I show for most people. Sometimes they're for my protection, when I'm too scared to know what's going on behind someone else's eyes. But for Scott – those walls are my silent acknowledgement that he matters enough to not take shortcuts with, that _we_ matter enough for me to fight for.

It's not easy keeping the TP in check. When the Professor first began teaching me how, I was like a teenager learning to drive. It took all of my concentration to maintain a shield against even one person, and I was always exhausted after our sessions. But I was also determined to get out of that mental ward and into the world. And I wanted that world to be one where I _didn't_ pick up on everything my priest or mother or dying best friend was thinking.

Practice makes perfect, right? And gradually I got better, just like driving becomes more automatic after awhile. But walling up the TP still does not feel _natural_, just as operating a multi-ton potential killing machine doesn't feel as right as walking. Sometimes, when I'm particularly tired or stressed, I simply don't have the energy it takes to keep my shields up and I have to go hide in the lab for a few hours before I can face people again. And that's _now_, after a couple decades of learning to live with my mutation.

The year I was doing rotations in med school was like one continual retreat into the lab. That was way back when there were far fewer of us at the mansion, but you were still liable to run into someone or overhear something if you weren't careful. I didn't particularly _like_ working twenty-four hour shifts at the hospital just to come home to spend half of my time off by myself (especially since these were the days before Hank and I started our research in mutant DNA), but it was my only option if I wanted to keep the others – and myself – comfortable and still be able to recharge enough to face another day in surgery or the ICU.

Then Scott came down to the lab one day with a ridiculously self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. He took my hands and said, "Drop your shields, Jean."

I doubt most people realize how _intimate_ being in someone else's head is. I'm always more than a little embarrassed when the Professor asks me to read someone's mind, and I absolutely refuse to do it as a party trick. At this point, Scott had let me into his naked mind once or twice before, and I think that had shown more love and trust than anything our bodies did together. Anyway, this was still early enough in our relationship that I thought he'd sought me out in the middle of the day for… rather amorous pursuits. So I acquiesced and reached out for his thoughts-

And came up totally blank. It was like running up against a literal wall. Most people can't get up such a complete shield, but Scott is nothing if not methodical in his studies. Turned out that he'd gotten Xavier to teach him on the sly.

Looking back, I think that's when I realized I was in love with Scott, that I would love him for the rest of my life. That day in the lab, when suddenly nothing – not my heels hurting from standing all day, not our difference in age, not even the growing mistrust of and threat to mutants – mattered so much as the blank wall I was hitting and that canary-eating grin he wore.

I count that surprise as one of the best presents anyone's ever given me. It meant that I didn't have to hide in the lab for five hours before finding Scott to tell him about my day. It means that our room is a refuge rather than a place I have to avoid when I'm upset. It means that I can truly relax for perhaps the first time since my mutation manifested at age ten.

It means that Scott is on "my side," that he's one less person I have to protect from myself, that he and I are in this together. It means that I'm important enough to make the hard way worthwhile to him. It means that _we're_ important enough for him to fight for.


	2. Scott Speaks

Scott speaks:

Jean wears red for me.

It seems like such a simple, easy thing, doesn't it? Not a mark of _true_ affection, like those women who sacrifice careers or six-figure salaries or supermodel bodies for their husbands. Well, to get one thing straight right off, I think I'd respect Jean Grey a lot _less_ if she'd given up practicing medicine at my request. Not that I ever have or ever will ask her to do that. I can't even begin to imagine how she'd react, not when she thought tacking Summers onto the end of her name when we got married was more of a win for me than for her.

Don't get me wrong, Jean is fiercely proud of being married to me (and her TK will nail anyone who questions that to the wall), but she told me then that she didn't like the implications of ownership that go with the practice. Besides, she'd already established an academic reputation with her given name.

Fine, I'd said, don't change your name. Or, better yet, why don't I go by Scott Summers Grey from now on?

I was serious about it too. I kind of liked that idea, to tell you the truth. It made us sound like true partners, even though I knew Logan would call me a pansy. But Jean had only laughed and said she didn't mind adding my name, she just wanted to keep hers too.

Fair enough, but what are you going to do when we get letters addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Summers? I'd asked.

Our shared mail is always marked 'Mr. and _Dr._ Summers' though, so I'm not quite sure who wins there.

Anyway, it's not about 'winning,' not really. And any guy who thinks he doesn't win just by waking up every morning next to Jean is seriously out of his fucking head. Besides, how can I quibble about small, petty matters when Jean Grey Summers wears red for me?

Now, to get that, you have to know two things about us. The first is that I can _only_ see in shades of red. (And no, that wasn't a pun.) Through the rose quartz crystal that keeps my eyes from blasting out everything animal, vegetable, or mineral within twenty feet, the world is turned pink and crimson and every tint of red in between. But it's not pure color, most of the time. Things that are white to most people's eyes are a swimming mix of grey and really, really pale bubblegum for me. Black turns the color of blood. Blue becomes magenta-red. And green… well, let's just say it was a while before I could look at trees without wanting to puke.

It's just a different filter for light waves, I know. But while everyone else gets to take off their sunglasses when they get sick of seeing life in half-increments of the same color, my shades have to stay put. Or I end up doing stuff like giving the train station a new sunroof.

So really the only color that isn't bastardized and leeched away through the crystal is red itself. Just the opposite, in fact. For me, rubies glitter more deeply; stop signs jump out from the curb; flames dance for me the way they do for no one else.

The girls I teach all think it's romantic that Valentine's is my favorite holiday. The boys don't say much, but I know it clashes with their view of the 'Fearless Leader.' Logan (of course) thinks it makes me a pansy. But I like Valentine's not for the chocolate or the cards or even the sexy lingerie that Jean buys (though those things don't hurt), but because it's the one day during the year when the world looks almost comfortable to me.

Arbor Day's a nightmare, but that's beside the point.

So, anyway, it follows that the first thing I noticed when I met Jean was her hair. It blazed out at me like a beacon. Even now, she's the first thing I spot if I walk into a room she's in. Not for romantic reasons, not even because we have established a mental link over the years, though that helps. (And no, I can't read her mind; it's more of an awareness sort of thing.) No, it's still that hair that catches my eye, even if now she has to use a bottle to keep it all bright and all red. You didn't hear that from me, by the way.

But she takes it another step by wearing red. 'Scott's color,' she calls it. And that'd be wonderful and sweet but nothing more, except that there's that second fact about us-

Jean hates red.

Or, more precisely, she hates wearing it. You see, half the time, Jean Grey Summers still feels like the shy, geeky, too-pale, too-tall, too-serious teenager who-heard-voices that she was in high school. It was then that she learned how to slouch over a bit, how to use makeup to hide her freckles (which I happen to think are sexy), how to blend in as best as she can.

It sounds ridiculous hearing it. I mean, Jean is seriously one of the most gorgeous women I know, even with a hangover or bedhead in the mornings. She's graceful, striking, and poised. She's Dr. Grey, in short. To look at her, I probably wouldn't take those insecurities seriously either. But then, I'm the one who holds her when she's shaking after presenting her studies to a group of fellow scientists or on the Senate floor.

So I know what it means for her to fill her half of the closet with a shade that she knows is eye-catching – especially on her. And even if med school and hospitals and rubbing elbows with Congresspeople have taught her how to slip on heels and stand up straight, Jean still doesn't enjoy being eye-catching, striking, or in the center of attention, not really. I mean, hell, she went and got herself _killed_ just to get out of me and Logan fighting over her. Kidding. (It's only funny when they come back to life and can kick your ass for making jokes like that.)

This isn't something I've asked her to do, though I did notice it almost right away. It's not even something we acknowledge. Jean knows that I don't love her more for wearing red, and she knows I won't love her any less if she decides to wear green every day for the rest of her life.

And even though I'm the only guy on earth who can truly appreciate what the gesture _means_ (I'm no fool, I know other men 'appreciate' Jean in red), this is really not any different than how she'll grade math tests for me sometimes, or how she drives when we go out at night so that people won't wonder why a 'blind' guy is behind the wheel, or how she won't complain if I spend an entire Saturday tinkering around with the Blackbird.

In the end, it all means the same thing: 'I love you.'


	3. Logan Speaks

Logan speaks:

Marie hung on to my dog tags for me.

I'm not a fool; I knew exactly what it would look like when I gave 'em to her. To tell you the truth, I kinda regretted it the instant right after. Not because I didn't want her to have 'em, understand, but because it seemed so sappy, like a scene straight out of a made-for-TV war movie.

I didn't want it to seem that way. Not because of what old One-Eye might've said, or because the girls would go all silly and swoony over the gesture… I just didn't want Marie to think that it meant any of the shit that it usually means in the movies.

The way I see it, if a soldier gives a girl his tags in a film, it's for one of two reasons: either he thinks he's gonna get killed in the fight and wants her to remember him always, or he's makin' her some sorta proposal and promisin' to come home and make good on it.

I didn't mean those things. I sure as hell didn't think that I'd _die_ explorin' that base that Charles told me about. I didn't really understand the scope of the Professor's powers back then, so I wasn't really expectin' to find much at Alkali Lake, life threatenin' or otherwise. And I wasn't makin' Marie an offer. If you're gonna propose to a woman, you do it with a ring, not tags. Even I know that.

No, I meant something else entirely. You see, Marie and I had been through a lotta shit together by that point. Gettin' attacked by Magneto's hairy bastard, gettin' roped into the X-mansion and their save-the-world gig, me puttin' my claws through her… right before she damn near sucked the life outta me, getting' attacked by Hairy Bastard _again_, me puttin' my claws through _myself_… right before she damn near sucked the life outta me. Lots of repetition when it comes to Marie and me. Heh.

But anyway, you go through all that with another person and you can't help but bond with them. I'm sure Hank would have some fancy psychobabble word for it, but it's really just that simple, in the end. Marie and I were the newbies together, so I guess it was only natural for us to gravitate toward each other, shared experience and all. But more than that… there were things that we knew that no one else in the entire world could've possibly understood – how adamantium looks from the inside of Magneto's machine, for example.

Marie had it harder than me, though. I was courted by the X-Men because of my age and – more importantly – because of the claws. She had to go through all the shit that new kids suffer in high school. I got to put on the leather and go off to save the world while she had to sit in History class. And she's the one who ended up with Magneto screwin' around inside her head.

But even if I did get the longer end of the stick, she was still a hell of a lot closer to _me_ than any of those geeks, so she quite understandably didn't want me to leave the mansion. Not when she still wasn't quite sure if she'd be stayin'. Not when I was the only person who understood the urge to run from all of that privileged rich kid shit.

So those tags… they were my way of tellin' her that I understood how she felt. The tags were a part of a past that I knew nothin' about… giving 'em to her meant I knew that she too now had a stake in my past, in my life.

It also meant that I was lookin' out for her, and that anyone who messed around with her would have to answer to the Wolverine. (Not that it kept Bobby from getting his icy fingers on her the minute I turned my back.) It meant that if she really ended up hatin' it at the X-mansion, I would help her leave. So, when I told her I'd be back for the tags, what I meant was _I'll be back for you, kid_.

Let the others draw their own conclusions; I knew Marie understood. I wouldn't have given 'em to her otherwise.

So I guess I was a little surprised to come back and find her all cozied up in the mansion, datin' Iceman and learnin' how to fly the Blackbird. Not that I wanted her miserable or anything, and it would've been unfair of me to tell her she couldn't see anyone when I was pissin' off Cyke by chasing Jeannie. But I was suddenly the outsider and the newbie all by myself, for all that they got me back into the leather before you could say 'claws.'

And then she gave 'em back to me, with no more than a "Here, these are yours," and that pissed me off to no end… for reasons I didn't even begin to understand. (It wasn't 'til a _lot_ later that I realized the timin' meant she must've slept with 'em around her wrist.) It felt like she was sayin' she didn't need me anymore. Like she was renouncin' her claim in my life or somethin'.

I should've been relieved, right? I still didn't know if I'd be stayin' then, and this meant that I'd have one less thing to worry about if I left. But I wasn't relieved, and it wasn't 'til Mystique crawled into my tent and morphed into a touchable Marie right on top of me that I began to understand why.

And that's when I realized another thing – Marie wasn't giving up our shared history or anythin' when she handed the tags to me. On the contrary, she was (literally) puttin' the choice back into my hands. I didn't have to stay for her… unless I _wanted_ to. And if I did stay… then none of that callin' her 'kid' shit anymore; she was a woman grown and she wasn't gonna be content with some small metal plaything while I chased other females.

"I wanted it to mean everything or nothing, sugar," she told me later. "And just then… it meant a bit of one thing to one person and a bit of another thing to someone else, and I didn't want any half-baked promises that no one else understood."

Nope, darlin', no half-baked promises for you. That's somethin' you gotta say for Marie, whether it's runnin' away from home or pilotin' the Blackbird for the first time, she doesn't do anythin' half-baked.

Now, I didn't figure all of this out at once. Not when I came back to the mansion and saw her with that Drake kid, not when Mystique did her little skin-changin' thing, not when I saw her through the windshield of the X-Jet, screamin' as all of the emergency landing procedures kicked into gear. Nope. But even if I'm a bit slow, I do get things eventually, and I think I was already havin' an inkling of all this at Alkali Lake.

And that's why I threw the tags away. No half-baked promises for the Wolverine either, none of what Stryker said he could give me, and no more shittin' around with Marie. I think I knew – even then – that the next time I gave her a small metal plaything, it'd be a ring.


	4. Rogue Speaks

Rogue speaks:

Every night, Logan takes my gloves off for me.

It scared me to death, the first time he ever did that. I mean, _hello_, these are power-sucking, life-destroying hands and he wants them bare while I'm unconscious? I always said he was weird.

He only said, "Darlin', I could (and have) clawed you through in my sleep. But you still trust me. Just return the favor, okay? Plus, I've got the healing factor."

Healing factor didn't save you from being comatose for several days last time, sugar; I wouldn't count too much on it now.

But he did have a point. And how ironically just is it that the girl with poison skin ends up with the only guy who can recover from whatever she does to him? Heh, in most relationships, both partners only suspect that the other could kill them, if driven to it. We don't even have that. (And yes, I've picked up a bit of Logan's warped sense of humor over the years.)

And though we both like to joke that there's nothing like a little danger in bed, the potentially fatal things we can do with our hands are things we take very seriously. (And no one will ever be able to accuse the Wolverine of taking sex lightly.)

That's where the trust comes in. In all honesty, I think both of us trust ourselves less than we do each other, but I'll give up the gloves, because it's important to him that I know he trusts me. And he'll risk the claws, because the same thing is important to me. And that's why we do what we do, not to prove how brave or reckless or daring (or kinky) we are – because, except for the kinky, we're usually none or very little of those things – but because it's something we _can_ do for each other.

You'd be surprised how few signs of affection you can keep secret in this mansion. For example, the students always know what flowers Jean and Storm and I are getting for Valentine's Day way before we do. And if we're trying to have a romantic dinner for two, something will _always_ come up, whether it's a mission or just some kid who wants an extension on his or her homework. Add my skin to that equation and… well, let's just say that Logan and I are never going to be able to have sex in the kitchen like so-called "normal people" with "normal lives." And neither of us is really big on overt, public displays anyhow. Sure, Logan'll keep an arm around me or we'll hold hands or something, but that's about it unless he gets nervous about some guy and starts marking his territory. All the creativity and scarves that go into even kissing don't factor too well out in the open.

So you get down to little things: special smiles, inside jokes, "I love you"s written on the mirror after one of us takes a shower… trust. Though that's really not such a little thing, when you think about it.

If _I_ think about it, it's pretty amazing to me that either of us can trust each other the way we do. Hell, between the two of us, Logan and I have seen enough betrayal to give everyone in the mansion a share… and then probably more, besides. But there it is, we trust each other. I don't think either of us analyzes it too much or thinks about it too hard, maybe for fear that such analysis or thinking will spoil it. I really don't know. But neither of us takes it lightly either.

If I do analyze it… my guess would be that the trust comes from us knowing each other. I mean, _really _knowing who the other person is, beneath all of the layers of clothing and the codenames and the fronts that we put up for other people (and sometimes for ourselves). Logan will never just be claws and a healing factor to me. I will never be two silver streaks and voices-in-my-head and poison skin to him.

That's another reason why he takes the gloves off, I think. Because the gloves are part of Rogue, not Marie. You don't grow up in hot, humid Mississippi without learning (and loving) how to wear the least clothing possible while still keeping your reputation intact. That's one of the things I miss the most, how carefree I once was in tank tops and shorts and skimpy bathing suits. Never mind that upstate New York lends itself to bundling up more often than not… there's still nothing like those Southern nights, when your sheets are damp with sweat, and you lie awake and listen to the cicadas outside because the air is fairly dripping with heat.

I've learned to live with jeans and scarves and long-sleeved shirts. And the gloves are a great fashion statement, sometimes. (And sometimes, when it's ninety degrees out and some asshole at the mall makes a remark about Goths or perverts, I just want to take them off and show just how much more of a statement my bare hands are.) But all of that learning is also part of a devil-may-care, I-don't-mind-wearing-layers-and-I-can-be-a-clotheshorse-despite-my-mutation persona. I'm not "Rogue" for nothing, after all. I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me, other mutants included.

And Logan sees right through all of that defiance. Just like I saw through his tough-guy Wolverine act and asked him if it hurt when the claws come out. _Every time_. Yeah, sugar, me too. Every time someone brushes against me in the hall and flinches away, every time I see Scott and Jean's bare fingers clasped together, every time one of the kids kisses the Professor on the cheek.

So, have we ever had any close calls with the claws or the skin? Hell yes. The claws still make an appearance on occasion, though luckily the pillow has gotten the pointy end of them every time. As for the skin… Logan sleeps with his chest bare in _Alaska_ for heaven's sake, and not even a power-sucking mutant in his bed was going to change that habit. So yeah, we've had some close calls, to say the least. I got to see some of his more graphic nightmares of Alkali Base that way. And there was the one time he was dreaming of Jean (and yes, of course I was upset, but it's a dream for crying out loud, and I'm the one that wakes up with him every morning). But I've also caught some of the most beautiful thoughts he's had about me and love and our relationship that way, stuff that he's too embarrassed to say out loud. Which just goes to show what can happen when one person trusts another.

And anyway, since the beginning of this arrangement, neither one of us has yet put the other into a coma. That's certainly something.


End file.
